Cosmology
Someone has spilled the moon
all over the trees;
someone is cutting down the trees,
branch by forked branch–
soon there will be nothing left
but kindling.
Why am I afraid of the dark
but more afraid of light, what it reveals:
this moonlight which lies everywhere
like a beautiful torn shroud;
the illumination of dreams, room
after room of dreams?
Is it the moon itself I fear,
in too many pieces now
to put back together? Or the stars,
light years away, my voice
traveling towards them
in a straight trajectory?
I fear the earth as it warms
and freezes; I fear your arms
which hold me a moment
then disappear.
